Can't Go Home Again
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: In which Emily Cavanaugh Gardner arrives home from college to find her mother and father at war, and she's half convinced it's all some horrific dream straight out of the twilight zone. AU.


**A/N- Okay, guys. Wow. How did this happen? First and foremost, I know we've got a lot of AW stories floating around in the archive where Will and Alicia had a daughter back at Georgetown and she still grew up through the scandal and Zach and Grace still exist and all that jazz. But the particular angsty scenarios the other writers put her through weren't wetting my angst whistle quite right. So this happened. Again, woops. Didn't mean to write another AW kid fic, but here it is. Thanks for reading! :) **

* * *

She's used to the stares, knows how to let them waterfall off her skin. Generally, it's common course to let them build up, to drive her to do things, the cheapest candor of motivation. Yes, she's used to the _looks. _Because with or without her pedigree, with or without her last name, with or without her affiliations, she's still _her_. It's easy to say she's aesthetically pleasing, none the less.

Steps off the elevator, and feels the very moment it begins.

It's been a few months, anyway. In the summer, she's here often enough that people remember their manners, but because of the span of time, she's sure she looks like a new toy. A new, young, pretty toy. Her destination is clear, anyway. Long, lean legs carry her through the hallways, not even bothering to stop for niceties. Keeps her hazel orbs lowered, but her shoulders pushed back.

Nothing is apparent, right up until David Lee's voice reaches her ears, mere seconds before she raises her eyes. It isn't what she expects to see, his hulking form situated in a desk that shouldn't be his.

"Come to harass me?" he quips moodily, and her eyebrows furrow deeply.

"Did Mom move offices?" she asks outright, blunt. Positive that this was the office her mother had, the last time the girl visited Lockhart and Gardner.

David Lee chuckles heartily, like she's said something funny, but then stops, almost in the same instant. The man studies her expression for a moment, peering up at her from behind the desk. After he confirms her confusion is genuine, he states obviously, "They haven't told you."

Here's the thing: for all the cold hearted, cut throat man David James Lee is, he doesn't specialize in family law because it pays better. He knows the trade, knows the name of the game. Familiar matters are complicated things, dynamics aren't easy understandings, but David looks at her and he knows how to handle it, with or without parental consent. He informs her, in a voice he only reserves for clients, "Your mother has left this firm."

David Lee knows it's better not to sugar coat things. It doesn't sting so much if has time to heal. If one knows the extent of the wound, they know better how to treat it. Immediately, she blinks hard, as if trying to get something out of her eyes.

"For where?" Spluttering, unsure if she's even heard him right, but David Lee looks grim, then. Believe it or not, David Lee actually_ hates_ giving bad news to people.

"Florrick, Agos, and Associates," he tells her ominously, as if these words have changed everything. And they have, really.

She just hasn't realized it yet.

/

Her next destination is her father's office, but when she finds it empty, the lights off, she turns to his secretary with a brittle smile. "Hi," she greets, inclining her head sweetly. "My dad's in court, right? That's okay. I was just wondering if you would happen to have the address to my mother's new firm? Thank you. Thank you so much. It's so embarrassing."

She's trying to smile. The secretary is trying to smile.

/

The moment she mentally envisions the area in which she's driving, her nose scrunches in disgust. It's not that she's elitist, hardly, but she would never have imagined her mother choosing this particular venue for a law firm. Her mother likes class, knows what looks good and what doesn't. She's heard the complaints of the people she'd represent at her father's firm, the murderers, the drug dealers, but she would have never, in a million years, thought her mother would start up a firm in a place that would make it more accessible to the Lemond Bishops of Chicago.

Boldly, she finds the sign that proclaims her stepfather's name in flat script. There's supposed to be a gap in communication, where the spiteful haze coming around her wanes, but all she can think is back to the time when the scandal had first broken, and her mother had complained to her, and her alone, that she wished she had kept her maiden name. That Alicia Cavanaugh might not have been as notorious as Alicia Florrick, as recognizable-

But now, looking at the sign, Alicia's daughter wishes it all the more. She wishes her mother had her name changed, had never been a Florrick at all. It's funny, as luck would have it, that this name is likely what's drawing in the new clients. She's a smart girl, see. She knows that there's a high likelihood that if her mother got a firm off the ground this quickly, she had some of her father's clients, took some of them with her.

She's never thought of her mother as a thief.

Even now, she doesn't want to believe any of this is true.

/

It's all far more than what she had expected. The atmosphere is relaxed, the furniture and the lack of walls a step back from her father's structure, but still-

It's nice.

It's a nice building. There's potential in the air.

The woman at the desk cornered to greet meets her eyes, narrows them suspiciously. "Hello. May I help you?" the woman asks, and the girl finds she doesn't have to fake a smile.

It draws across her face easily, because this is her mother's new work, and despite the circumstances, she's proud of her mother. Proud that she could have all of this, and now, meeting this seemingly nonfactor of a secretary, it's like being introduced on the first day of school.

"Yes," she takes a deep breath. "I'm here to see my mother. Alicia Florrick."

The secretary doesn't become warm, like she expects. If anything, she grows more wary.

"Is there a problem?" she inquires, confused by the woman's behavior.

"I know what Zach and Grace look like."

A chuckle bubbles from her lips, because she gets this a lot. Zach and Grace are who are far more known. Not only because of Peter's campaigns or notoriety, but because of Zach with the abortion thing, Grace with the One Hooker. But she's hardly caused any problems, so the lack of recognition doesn't offend her. If anything, maybe her mom has been so busy, it's never come up in necessary conversation.

"I'm Emily," the girl explains. "I'm her eldest daughter."

"She's never mentioned you," the woman cuts her off shortly, and Emily tries not to be offended. "Listen, if you're trying to pull some _prank, _kid, we'll be having none of that here today-

"No prank," Emily stutters. "They'll be a picture of me on her desk- or, here," she stops, reaching for her phone in her back pocket of her jeans. Her lock screen is that image of her, Grace, and her mother, taken at Zach's eighteenth birthday party. She shows the secretary. Finally, the woman takes a pause in her havoc, features softening.

"You do look like your mother," the secretary whispers, a smile breaching her face.

"Yeah," Emily shrugs, replacing her phone. "I get that a lot."

/

Her mother is in court, too, and briefly, Emily wonders if her mother and father are on opposite sides of the case. Hopes not, anyway, but knows the likelihood is imminent. The secretary allows her to go back to her mother's desk, to wait there, and Emily approaches it with caution in her gait.

She's not a snoop. Emily Gardner, by nature, is not a nosey person. Knows when to push.

Knows when _not _to push.

From a young age, she's known boundaries. At four, she already knew that when Zach and Grace went to Jackie for soft, grandma-esque hugs, she was exempt. At five, she had approached her mother with an elementary logic game: Her last name was Gardner, like Daddy, and her siblings' last name was Florrick, like Peter. Had asked, all serious, why her mother had chosen Zach and Grace's last name instead of her own. Alicia had, in return, given her the simple concept of marriage.

Emily had asked her mother if Alicia had been a Gardner _before _she'd been a Florrick.

"_I was never married to your father, Em," _Alicia had explained gently, waiting with bated breath for screaming, for the little girl's tears. Alicia, by nature, is not a bad mother.

But even at such a young age, Emily had already known that somehow asking _why _wasn't the best option, that it was somehow the blackened area. Off limits, even by the default of making her mother unhappy, uncomfortable. The screaming never came.

Emily had said, "_Oh." _

And that had been it.

Even now, Emily shuffles over to her mother's desk, gives it an observant eye. She's not a prying person, but no one is around, and she'd like to know how things are alike, how things are different. There's the lowered caliber of furniture, for one. It's chilly in the office, like the heating isn't as efficient. Like an outsider looking in, Emily shivers and tucks her dark hair behind her ears, finds her gaze locked on a picture on her mother's desk, but not one she's seen before.

It appears recent, with Grace's straightened hair down around her face, looking old. Zach looks nothing like the little boy Em will always think of him as, but together, they're still so blatantly attractive people that Emily thinks to herself, _Mom could not produce an ugly kid. _They're dressed up semi-formally, in a position of a family portrait.

Behind them, Emily recognizes the regal picture of how it's always been, her mother and Peter. It's a good picture, a fantastic picture. By all means, it's definitely professional. She'd taken up photography her sophomore year of high school, and she can even tell that the image has been a little digitally retouched. The seal behind the family of four.

By nature, she's not a jealous person.

Life has taught her not to be jealous.

But still, she looks at the portrait and wonders why she hadn't been invited to the official gubernatorial family shoot. Her mother has always made it a point to include her in whatever nonsense activity that involved what the press deemed as Peter's 'children'. After all, she had lived in the same household as Peter for eighteen years. Before the scandal, she'd even grown to have a respect for the man. Not close, but tolerated. Cordial.

She can admit that since she went to college a year and a half ago, things had been different. The distance had affected her relationships with everybody, not just her family. It's not that she feels left out of the photo. It's a stupid, political photo. From how close Zach and Grace are fitted against Mom and Peter, there probably wouldn't have even been _room _for her to fit.

She's not nosey, and she's not jealous, but she scans the pens, the keyboard, the schedules, planners- and when she finds something, she stops. Well, the _lack _of something, anyway.

Her mother has always had a picture of her on her desk. It's the same picture that's been on Alicia's desk since she left the law when Grace was born, same frame that went up when Alicia was hired four years ago. It's even worn with time, with twenty years.

Nothing particularly special; just Emily as a cherry cheeked baby, in Will's arms. The same smile gracing both of their faces, the same laughter. It's nowhere to be found.

Emily's eyes darken.

She twiddles with the circular knob of a drawer before she opens it, officially crossing the lines of nonchalant, and exhales sharply, blowing air between her lips.

In that first drawer, there lies the picture.

The glass is missing, the wood splintered.

Almost as if it had been thrown across a room in rage.

Accidentally, intentionally. It doesn't matter.

The damage is still done.

/

The first thing she notices about her mother is that she's wearing her hair different. The second, is that her mother is wearing darker makeup. Black eyeliner comes across more severe, demanding. Like a boss. Emily nearly hums the tune under her breath. The observation of her mother walking in with Cary Agos is muted by a memory, and she compares her mother's body language to the person who once wore capris on summer days, kept a garden in the backyard.

This is the same woman who once played in the dirt right alongside a three year old, had told Emily mud pies weren't to be made alone. Emily looks at her mother and takes in the expensive, loud suit. It reminds her of Diane, epitome of class. Of professionalism. _But this is my mother, _she thinks. _My mother is not supposed to be Diane. _Alicia's face is clouded from being taken off guard, but shifts immediately, moving faster to meet Emily in a smothering hug.

"Hey!" she greets her daughter, and Emily's reply is muffled by her mother's shoulder. Her mom still smells like her mom, at least. The same perfume.

"You're early," Alicia observes, when she pulls away. A rush of affection sparkles in her eyes. "Oh, I've missed you, Emily."

"Missed you too, Mom," she whispers, sincere. The calls and emails only do so much, and she and her mother have always been close- well, she'd thought they were. "Exams ended early."

She's probably wrong, but Emily imagines that a few years ago, her mother would have taken this moment to pull her aside. Away from the fray of associates suddenly scattered. She would have taken this exact moment to assuage the fears, the worries, answer any questions.

But Alicia Florrick has changed. Adapted.

And instead, she asks her daughter, hesitantly, "So, what do you think?"

Alicia bites her lip, glimmer of fear- and Emily knows right then and there, that her mother thinks her father has already tattled. But her father wasn't the one who told. Nor was Grace, nor was Zach. There hasn't been any spinning yet.

"It's definitely a change," Emily plasters on a pleasant look, eyes wide and innocent. "You seem happy enough."

"I am," Alicia admits, honest, almost _shy, _and it freezes something deep within Emily, that her mother really can't tell that she's hurting, she's standing there and trying to act like it's all okay, but it's not, and she doesn't even-

"Have you spoken to your father?" her mother questions. Entirely neutral.

"No, not yet," Emily blurts, crestfallen. "Actually, I- we have dinner. Tonight, Dad and I were going to do dinner and the Maroon Five concert-

"Sounds like fun," Alicia adds appropriately, and even she doesn't realize she's done it; the hand that was perched on Emily's arm in motherly affection- drops. "Now, come on. I need to get you prepped for your cross tonight, hmm? How has school been going?"

/

"Hey," she calls out, knocking on the door. "I'm an idiot, and I forgot my key, so can you please open the door, Da-

The door swings open, and Emily's jaw promptly hits the floor.

There's a video on the internet of this dog cocking it's head to a strange, new sight- and that's not dissimilar to what the brunette does, staring at the blonde that only looks two, three years older than her. In lacy underwear and one of her dad's shirts.

_She's _slept in that shirt before, when she'd forgotten her pajamas at her mother's, and all the one's at dad's had been dirty, and-

Emily makes a choking sound.

Isabel narrows her eyes. "Come on in," she greets silkily, and pivots.

Okay, here's the thing:

Emily Cavanaugh Gardner is not an idiot, contrary to her words. She's thoroughly aware her father has a slew of women he sees. He wasn't labeled Chicago's Sixteenth Most Eligible Bachelor for noting. She's also very, very attuned to the fact that all through the years, she's met maybe _three _of those women. None of them were this young.

Or this…_brazen._

"So," Isabel starts, sitting on a bar stool like it's not a big deal that she _doesn't have pants on,_ not even attempting to preserve her decency. "Are you his other girlfriend?"

Emily sets her bag down and inhales shakily, wonders if she's walked into some twilight zone. _Is this real life? _she mouths, looking around the apartment that is familiar and home.

"Hey," Isabel snaps, a little harsher. "Did you hear me?"

"No," Emily cringes, shaking her head. Her face crinkles in disgust.

She looks like her mother in the moment, although she doesn't know it.

"I'm his daughter," she explains, confused as to why she's even in this situation in the first place. Her father is generally good about informing girlfriend's that he has a kid that's in college, and it strangles a strange nerve that he didn't find it prudent to mention her existence if this woman has gone so far as to make like she's marking territory. "Did he not tell you that I-

"No," Isabel gasps, equally as horrified. "Oh, wow. Sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to-

_Sweetie. _Five seconds ago, Isabel was trying to mark her territory. Now it's _sweetie. _

Emily tries to focus on the matter at hand. "Where's Dad?"

Isabel hops off the stool, going back towards the bedroom. "Picking up takeout for dinner. He'll be back in a few min-

All the air leaves her lungs. Emily's through dries up like a desert, and she shakes her head like she doesn't understand. This is a big deal. This concert is something she and her dad had talked about for months, and it baffles her that he would forget something like this. In fact, she doesn't believe it. She's trying not to believe it.

But then, nowhere in her address book of logic did she ever predict her mother would leave the firm. If her mother is managing partner and her father has a side piece that's _her age, _what else could possibly-

This. This could possibly be wrong.

It's silly, really. Her dad's always been good about going to all the parent teacher conferences, even when it became difficult because of court and such. He's always attended her recitals, her graduations, her birthday parties. Always been good about remembering, and you know what? _It's fine, _Emily steels herself.

She looks down at her outfit that she'd picked off the rack last week, known it would be perfect for a dinner with her dad at the Bellisario, quality time, and maybe some notable memories at the concert, and. And Emily feels so, incredibly stupid. It was bound to happen eventually, and even if Emily doesn't know exactly what _it _is, it's happened. It's happening.

"It's not a big deal," she tells Isabel, even though Isabel has no fucking idea what could possibly _be _a big deal. Isabel just nods like she's empathetic, like she understands, and she doesn't.

Emily takes a step back.

Picks up her bag, and glances at the clock on the wall.

They'd already be late for the reservations, anyway.

Stupid.

"I'm going to go," she tells Isabel, even as Isabel shakes her head. Emily nearly dares the chick to stop her, as she backtracks, opens the door. She has absolutely no desire to face her dad with this woman, in her underwear, in his apartment. This concert wasn't that big a deal, anyway.

They always go to a concert around this time of year, though. It's tradition, because her dad always talks about-

"Should I tell him you stopped by?" Isabel cries out, even as she's halfway down the hall, to the elevator.

Emily doesn't answer her.

/

She stops by a diner she and her dad would frequent on nights when her dad had her for the week and he'd worked a little too late. The food is greasy but she chews it thoughtfully. She's missed this place at Northwestern, even with the cafeteria, even with a diner very similar, there.

A waiter her age that probably goes to DePaul flirts with her, and she flirts right back.

While she's paying all by herself, it strikes her as off, always strikes her at weird times, how old she feels. She's a grown up, with her wallet and her disappointments, her walls, her resolve.

Uncle Owen has always said she's more like Mom, though.

Never was a kid a day in her life.

/

Halfway through the concert, she leaves.

It's childish of her, and she knows it, is acting like a little girl who didn't have things go the right way. But it still stings, and she doesn't want to drink like other people because tonight's not the night for that, and her father has never, ever done anything like this before.

It's like she's in an alternate universe, and she's tired of it.

She wants to go home.

/

She's halfway up the stairs of her mother's building when her phone rings. Emily's brown eyes narrow as she answers it, prepared for anything.

"Em! Are you okay? You should have waited for me! You only missed me by a few-

"Isabel seems young," she cuts him off, and she knows she's pouting, but damn it, she's didn't make it home for winter break and has only been able to catch this weekend because of the off days, and her father has a planner, has a secretary, he should've-

"Don't take that tone with me, Emily," Will says, and Emily's eyes widen. Her dad isn't firm with her, hardly ever is, but there's an edge in his voice. Pushed to the brink. "I would have caught up with you, but you're the one who had the tickets, and-

"Dad," she cuts him off, and she gets it, suddenly.

He's feeling guilty. He's deflecting.

"Dad, you forgot," she states as gently as she can, and she can't help it if her voice breaks.

In all her twenty years, her dad has never forgotten. And he knows it. And she knows it.

On the other end of the line, there's a muffled crackling, like he's moving, or doing something, and after a second he says in a voice just as weak, "I'm sorry, kiddo. There's been a lot on my mind recently. A lot's going on."

"No, it's okay," Emily tries to reassure, because she hates hearing her dad sound like this. She's never heard him sound like this before. "We're okay, Daddy. It's not a big deal. Stuff happens."

She looks at the elevator to get up to Mom's floor, and swallows back the lump in her throat. "Dad, I gotta go. Tomorrow-

"Ten thirty," her dad cuts her off, sounding stronger, surer. "Telly's Waffle House. I'll be there. You staying at your-" he breaks off, and she knows why.

"I am," she confirms, inclining her head. Her stomach is rolling. "Love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Emmy. Be safe."

She hangs up before he can even say the last word. Hollow.

She feels hollow.

/

Grace hugs her so tight it feels like she's going to smother, and Zach punches her shoulder like he's half the macho man he wants to be. Emily's missed them most of all. It's interesting how they skirt around the topic, though, a family of politician and lawyer raised minds, and Grace touches the subject of Will almost as much as Emily touches the subject of Peter. Barely.

It hurts her, it really does.

In October, everything had been fine, hadn't it?

And nobody had bothered to call her, to inform her that her mother was making such a bold career move, uprooting lives, changing dynamics. No one had bothered to inform her that everything was going up in ashes and smoke. No one had bothered her and now she's looking at the wreckage, all tied up in the way her mother comes home later than Emily's ever seen. Her mother looks even more like Diane than earlier, pristine and beautiful, but sharp. A boss.

Emily misses the soft edges of her mother, and hopes to God they're still there, that that hasn't changed too awfully much. That the suits are the only armor Alicia wears at home.

"Mom," she catches her attention, even as her mother goes to embrace her again. "Are we still doing half birthday brunch tomorrow?"

Any joyous emotion on Alicia's face falls, and Emily wants to curl up into a ball and cry. Childish. Silly. Stupid.

"Absolutely," her mother whispers, nodding like she's offended the notion of not upholding the tradition even exists. It seems that even through the scandals, even through the years of Zach and Grace being young and a handful, even though the worlds are hectic and moving- even though her mother has apparently done absolutely everything in her power to get away from Emily's dad, this stupid tradition will still be. Her mother and father are going to spend an hour having brunch, because they love her that much. Or maybe because what's between them isn't as broken, as if they still like each other enough.

Emily feels oddly comforted by that.

She smiles at her mother.

Alicia thinks that Emily's smile is a carbon copy of Will's, always has been, and it makes something in her chest burn.

/

Apparently, because Mom had wanted to start her own firm _in their living room, _and her father had sent dozens and dozens of _pointless files, _Emily's room is half filled with boxes, almost a storage.

Emily bristles, and opts to sleep on the couch. It's more annoying than hurtful, anyway.

But it's still a little bit hurtful, even if she'll never, ever admit it.

/

The next morning, a quarter after eight, she strolls into Lockhart and Gardner with a more cheery expression, pleased to see the lack of looks she's getting, even a day in. She enters Diane's office confidently, moving toward the desk, until-

"Emily," Diane greets from a corner chair, and Emily jumps. Diane laughs like a maniac.

"Not funny," Emily growls, shaking her head, but giving Diane a warm smirk. "Congrats on the marriage thing, though."

"Thank you," Diane responds swiftly, sitting forward. "You're were going to grab a paper to apply for the summer internship, right?" At Emily's nod, Diane looks away. "Have a seat, Emily."

Warning bells go off, but Emily does, fiddling with her bracelets as she crosses her legs.

"I know you've probably been feeling a little awkward, seeing as what's happened between your mother and father-

"Actually," Emily interrupts, shaking her head. She's always felt she could be candid with Diane. Honest, but candid. "Not really. I found out about all of this yesterday."

Diane's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and Emily thinks the older woman was a cartoon character muse, in a past life. "Wow. That's," Diane clears her throat. "Shocking. It's good that they can be civil, then. For you. It's important to be able to separate the professional from the personal, for people like us. Even if it means going against your morals to make the buck, sometimes. It's something I've come to struggle with over my career, but," Diane shakes her head. "I digress."

"Emily," Diane says, as gentle as she ever is. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to apply for the internship."

"What?" Emily barks, and she can't help it. "I've wanted to do this internship since I was _ten," _she mutters, and then when Diane stays silent, waiting for her to understand, it begins to sink in. It's a horrible feeling, realization. The blood leaves Emily's cheeks.

"Diane," she murmurs. "My mother's firm would have no insight as to what I'm around, here. I would never tell-

"I know," she hears. "I know that, Emily. But it would be better if there was never any chance for anything to happen at all. Do you understand?"

The girl studies her hands for a moment, sets her jaw. There's hardness in her voice, anger. "So, you're saying I can't even submit an application?"

Diane feels horrible, mouth down turned when she tells a girl she has thought of as a kind of niece, "I am telling you ahead of time that you won't be considered. There are other firms, Emily, ones that would be infinitely lucky to have you-

"But I didn't want to do my first internship at other firms," Emily whispers, and she closes her eyes because she is _not _going to cry. She is _not _going to whine, but she can't help it. It's not fair.

"I know, Emily," Diane says, sounding tired. "I know."

/

She was never given the opportunity to have breakfast with both her parents every morning, right up until her father and mother collaborated as soon as she was old enough to understand: half birthday brunch. It's a strange way to go about it, but it's always at a different restaurant, always planned a year ahead. Even after Emily had turned eighteen, her mother had suggested it still be a thing, and at the time, it seemed like an easy, fun way to always have a moment for just the three of them.

They would exchange presents with her, those first few years. Right up until she was eight, nine, and decided that she wasn't the only one who was getting gifts- and that is how the tradition of giving her parents gifts on her half birthday breakfast started. Even now, as she waits in the waffle house, glancing down at her watch every thirty seconds, Emily knows all of this is about to change.

She can taste it on her tongue, and it's a bitter thing.

Her father ends up arriving first, flustered and apologizing like he's missed it, anyway. Last year, they car pooled. The year before, her mom and dad came together, which looking back-

Two years ago, her mother and father had sat closer together than ever before, and she'd thought it was all okay, for once. They've always been cordial, always been happy together, never an awkward silence, but today, her mother arrive ten minutes late and she and Will sit so far apart an ocean could have fit between them. Emily's heart begins to break the second conversation starts.

It's a slow process, only pieces at a time.

There's questions about school, but every time Mom goes to ask her one, and her father does too, and they somehow overlap, there's not some easy peace offering of looks. Her mother actually shoots a glare at her father, the third time it happens, and Emily shifts in her eat.

They eat in silence, and Emily remembers last year, how even if they hadn't set near as close as two years ago, her mother had shared a piece of strawberry pancake with her dad, laughed with him about some clients. The silence cuts like her knife she holds in her trembling hands, and before Emily thinks it's too much, just too much, her father suggests they go ahead and exchange presents.

As soon as she opens up the decorated phone case from her mom, Emily hears her father make some noise in the back of his throat, and her eyes shoot up. She proceeds to open his gift. A replica, right down to the color-

And, well. She can exchange one, she decides, tries to reassure, but her father is actually frowning at her mother, and this is weird, it's so _weird. _

_ "_Here," Emily breaks into their little unspoken feud, offers her father his gift. It's tickets to the playoffs, two, and Will looks at his daughter with a half smile, thanking her.

"We're going to have a good time," Will says, nodding like it's the only way.

Emily smiles too, and from the corner of her eye, she sees her mother looking at them both. For a split second, it's almost as if her mother is looking on adoring at the scene, like she did last year, and the year before, almost as if all that tension and dislike has left the table-

And then a phone rings.

And then _another _phone rings.

"Court," Will says, and her mother nods, too.

They both look at her apologetically, but Emily doesn't have it in her to be upset.

She's just disappointed. It's a weird feeling, because Emily rarely gets disappointed by anybody. It's not her style, because she's so open to forgiveness. So forgiving.

"It's fine, you guys," she cedes, shrugging her shoulders.

Last year, they'd stayed to share a dessert together as a family, even if it was rare to even have her parents in the same room with her. After her mother started working at her dad's firm it was different, better and different, but still.

They barely finish their plates, and for some strange reason, that makes her feel nauseated.

/

A few minutes after they've left with hugs goodbye, Emily realizes her mother has left her present sitting there. Unopened. Emily groans, and pushes up from the table. It's been too long since she's seen her parents in court, anyway. This'll be fun, she tells herself. A ball of fun.

/

The wood of the bench is cold. Freezing, and she's frozen.

She feels like she's an alien in her own body, staring at a scene that's a murder, that isn't supposed to _be. _

Emily had snuck in after the first few minutes, and her parents were already. They were already going at it. They were already arguing vehemently, _objection, objection, objection. _And it's stupid, because it's just like any other trial, but it's not stupid, because the way they talk to each other- it's. It's antagonistic. It's _mean _and _snide. _

The judge breaks for fifteen minutes and Emily is up and out of her seat quicker, rushing out and into the bathroom. She leans up against a stall and holds that stupid wrapped gift with sweaty, slick hands. But she goes to leave when she hears the voices again, hears them carry.

It's not professional of her parents to speak outside the courtroom like this, but they do. As outside entities, she can't recall them ever being the type, but she hears it now, and she can't bring herself to move, to show her presence. "Will, the _only _reason why you know Dunham wasn't in that car is because I told you when we were-

"I don't know a damn thing about what you're talking about, Alicia."

"Yes, _you do."_

_ "_No," she hears her father say. "You just can't face that I might be outsmarting you. You forget that I _know _all of your methods. I watched you _develop them-_

_ "And you know what?" _her mother seethes, and Emily's fists are clenched. She's twenty years old, and she's always been the grown up child, and she feels little. She feels small, and her chin wobbles, and she hates that she's even in this position. Diane was right. Diane was _right, a_nd her mother says,

"Meeting you at Georgetown was the biggest mistake of my life."

It takes Emily approximately two seconds to process the words, to comprehend. It's all been building, but this is the moment she clasps her hand over her bow of a mouth to muffle some strangled sound. Almost a yelp.

Tears in her eyes, and stupid. She shouldn't even be here.

She shouldn't be here, and her father twists the knife deeper, when his voice carries, goes,

"Join the club, Alicia. I feel the same way."

/

Eventually, she has to leave the bathroom. She only does so when the voices speak no more, and she actually thinks they're gone, until-

"Emily?" she hears her mother say, shocked, struck. "Emily, what are you doing here?"

Emily turns slowly, like moving through pounds of cement. She feels heavy when she walks up to her mother, and won't meet her mother's eyes, and holds out the present numbly. Her mother takes it, and Emily tries to smile, but it's not okay. It's not okay, and even though Emily doesn't cry because she's not the type, her ears are hot and her face is pale, and she looks stricken. She looks like there should be blood somewhere, like she's been wounded. Hurt.

Alicia doesn't know what to say, opens her mouth to soothe, reaches her hand out to assure, because this is her _baby, _and oh God, what have she and Will-

"Grace probably has a better picture," Emily tells her mother, but doesn't really know what she's saying. "If you'd prefer a different one."

"Emily," Alicia speaks loudly, even as the girl is trying to leave, walk down the hall fast.

"Mom, I've got to go."

She goes.

/

They've opened up the doors to let everyone back in, but Alicia unwraps the gift, knows it looks like she's been slapped across the face when she pulls out the picture frame that had been ruined when she'd left Lockhart Gardner. The frame is new, but the picture has been repaired, and Alicia stares at it, and even though she has to go in, has to start arguing or listening again, she stares at the picture, and her eyes fill with tears.

Will sees this as he's going in, and he stops. He quirks an eyebrow, and he shouldn't be worried about her, but the ties are still there, those pesky feelings, and-

"Alicia? You okay?"

Alicia looks up at him with a broken sentiment in her eyes. "Oh, Will."

/

Before Emily leaves, she barges into Diane's office. It's nearly lunch, and she shouldn't be here, but she is. It's all come crumbling down, and she finds herself here of all places, grasping at anything she can, knowing that as she sinks she's just continuing to drown everyone with her.

"Was it Dad's idea that I didn't do the summer internship?" her voice cracks, and her makeup is smeared, she knows it. Diane looks at her, taken aback. Sighs.

"He'd expressed his worries," she admits, and Emily brushes her tangled locks back away from her eyes. Puts a hand on her forehead, even as it's pounding, aching.

"He doesn't trust me," Emily whispers, and it's funny- this, of all things- knowing her father doesn't trust her anymore- that's what hurts her most of all. She's always been a Daddy's girl, at heart.

She doesn't know who she is, anymore. If any of that was ever real to begin with, if it because dust so easily. So fallible. Destructible. She whimpers, "He thinks I would tell my mom; that I'd be on her side-

"No, Emily," Diane cuts her off sharply, rising from her desk. "That's not it at all. It wouldn't be prudent for-

Emily runs.

/

She gets into the elevator like she'd gotten out of the elevator the minutes before her life had changed and she'd finally found out about it, thanks God for the lack of vultures, right up until the moment she stops on the floor below.

Kalinda gets in with her, and the doors close. Tears run hot down her cheeks again, all salt, and she hates crying. She's such an ugly crier-

But it hurts. It all _hurts. _

"Tell me about it," Kalinda prompts, obscure. Always the wind whipping, always the smoke between cracks. Emily missed Kalinda, too. Wonders if the woman has changed, too. Still, a little goading is all she needs. The words spill, unfiltered.

"I think, Kalinda, that I shouldn't exist."

Kalinda makes a noise, and Emily looks up, rubs a hand over her messy face. "Don't worry. I'm not contemplating suicide. It's not even about me. It'd just be easier, you know? For them. It'd take the stress of _pretending_ off," Em says petulantly. "Just to be able to hate each other in peace."

"Emily," Kalinda murmurs silkily. "They don't hate you."

Emily Cavanaugh Gardner does not cry in front of people, as a rule, as nature depicts, but Kalinda is the outlier.

Emily's face crumples at the words, and the girl sobs.

She wants her mother to hold her, and she wants her father to hold _them, _and-

"No," Emily hiccups, open. It's gross, but she can't help it, it's all there, this shipwreck's salvage. "But both halves of me hate the other. It's like a war inside me, Kalinda, and I don't know how to explain it. I'm just so tired. And _sad."_

"You don't know how bad I want it to be yesterday. Or last year," Emily cries, and then grunts to stop it all, stop herself.

No. _No. _She can't, anymore. She can't hurt like this forever.

Emily closes her eyes and shakes her head at herself.

Stupid.

Pathetic.

_Weak._

"Emily."

She looks at Kalinda and puts up her walls. Builds them, actually. She's never had a need for them until now, but they're coming easier when she's constructing them.

Maybe it was always meant to end like this, her ignorant, naïve childhood.

She had it good, before.

But this is reality, and it's a mouth full of blood as much as it is a breath of fresh air.

"I'm okay," she hears herself say. Emily feels like a different person. "It's all going to be fine."


End file.
